One Last Dance
by nanniships
Summary: Baxley one shot based on an OTP prompt: Imagine your OTP ballroom dancing with no one else around, just enjoying themselves and each other's company. Just because everyone goes to bed doesn't mean the party is over ;)


Her head was splitting.

Phyllis Baxter knew when she'd had that second glass of wine that it had been a mistake. But she had been swept up in the celebration and palpable relief the staff had felt at the end of the Bate's ordeal with the British justice system.

And the music, of course.

The headache was worth it for the memories of relaxing, smiling, and being led around the Servant's Hall by Joseph Molesley. He'd been self deprecating, making fun of his "two left feet," but she'd been the one to glance down often to make sure she wasn't about to trod embarrassingly on his toes. His comment about how lovely the top of her head was had made her confident enough to look at him instead, and laugh at herself as they had spun around the room.

But the pounding in her head would not be banished by remembering the look in his eyes as he smiled back at her in delight that he'd managed to make her lift her head. The pillow rucked up under neck as she tossed around, trying to get comfortable, and it was hours yet until she could expect a tap on her door.

She could murder for a cup of tea and a powder. The only thing for it was to get up and venture downstairs. Quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb anyone or answer awkward questions, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself, crept from her room and down the stairs.

There really shouldn't have been anyone about at this time of the morning. But she found the light on in the kitchen when she reached the foot of the stairs, and nearly turned around to go back up and wait out the headache. As she was stood there in indecision, the light went off and footsteps headed into the dark Servant's Hall.

A flash of fear bolted through her and she pressed herself closer to the wall at the bottom of the stairs. While her mind told her there was most certainly nothing to be afraid of, the downstairs would never seem truly safe anymore. She had nerved herself to bolt back up the stairs when the light went on the Servant's Hall and the sound of someone humming one of the songs that had been played earlier echoed hollowly off key through the corridor.

She recognized that hum.

Biting her lip to hold back a sudden urge to laugh, she peeked around the doorway to watch Joseph Molesley, clad in his own night things, shove a biscuit into his mouth as he arranged himself at the long table with a newspaper, a plate with more biscuits and a brimming glass of milk in front of him. Not wanting to startle him, she scuffed her slipper against the stone floor. In spite of her intentions, he did jump a mile and hastily threw his newspaper over his snack before warily turning to see her framed in the doorway.

"Miss Baxter!" he yelped, half rising from his seat. Then he blew out a relieved breath. "Thank God it's you."

"Me rather than Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson," she replied with a smile. "Thank God, indeed."

"Or Mrs. Patmore," he said, gesturing at the plate full of biscuits.

"So you're the one helping yourself to the biscuits," she said thoughtfully, her eyes twinkling at him as she made her way over to the chair he'd pulled out for her. "Mrs. Patmore thinks it's Mr. Barrow, and he's been denying it to the moon and back."

"Does she?" he asked. "Fancy that…"

She watched satisfaction war with guilt on his face and smothered a giggle in her hand. He nudged the plate of biscuits towards her with a smirk.

"Would you care for one, Miss. Baxter?"

"You're trying to make me an accomplice, Mr. Molesley," she scolded as she helped herself.

"Is it working?" he teased.

"Clearly…"

Mr. Molesley watched her nibble a chocolate biscuit and felt a bit…off kilter. Dropping his eyes away from her face, he flapped his newspaper around in an attempt to fold it up.

"So…what brings you downstairs in the dead of night?" he asked, before taking a long drink of milk.

"I was just down for a cuppa and a powder for my head," she replied before giving into the urge to tease him: "I certainly didn't think I'd find you partaking in illicit biscuits…" She trailed off as Mr. Molesley inhaled half his glass of milk and began sputtering and coughing violently. Clearly, her choice of words had been somewhat ill advised.

She reached over and tapped between his shoulder blades, murmuring apologies. He continued to gasp and wheeze until she began to look nervously at the door, wondering if she should get some help.

"I'll be alright," he finally sputtered, "just give me another moment."

"I'm really quite sorry, Mr. Molelsey," she said as he cleared his throat repeatedly. "I shouldn't have said that."

He tried to object, but she sighed and pushed away from the table.

"I'll just get a powder and a glass of water and go back to bed," she said quietly.

"No…no," he managed to rasp out. "I'll get it for you. Stay."

And with that, he had gotten up and walked unsteadily towards the kitchen. She vacillated between skulking off upstairs to try to forget her embarrassment or remaining politely as he'd asked and trying to apologize again.

Illicit biscuits…what had she been thinking…?

He banged around in the kitchen long enough for her to get nervous. She reached for another biscuit and again considered simply bolting up the stairs. But when he appeared at the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and a powder in the other, still clearing his throat but smiling, she was glad she hadn't.

"Thank you," she said as she tore open the package and mixed the powder in the water.

He just nodded and watched with sympathy as she drank down the glass with a grimace and a shudder. "Is it a bad one, your headache?"

"Too much wine and dancing is all," she replied, mirroring his sudden smile.

"That's a shame," he mused, passing her another biscuit. "Here, that'll take the taste away…" He paused as she bit into it. "…even if it is illicit."

She choked down the biscuit with slightly more success than he had done with his milk, but she couldn't escape the way his eyes twinkled at her when she turned her head aside to cough up the crumbs.

"I suppose we're even now," she grumbled, giving him a mock glare that fooled him not at all. His smile widened and she found herself beaming back at him.

"I suppose we are," he agreed,"but I was hoping you'd give me another dance to make it up to me, Miss Baxter."

She laughed as he looked at her with a hopeful grin. "There's no music, Mr. Molesley."

"I'll hum," he offered, making her snort with laughter and shake her head.

"And we're not… we're in our dressing gowns, Mr. Molesley!"

She had to stifle another snort of laughter as his face showed momentary panic. He'd obviously forgotten that little detail. As he swept his eyes down from her plaited hair to her slippers peeking out from the bottom of her dressing gown, a deep flush began creeping up his neck.

"Oh! Er…yes. I, um…well, yes…we are." He looked at her in mortified trepidation, as if he was afraid she'd storm off.

She opened her mouth to tell him, gently, that they'd better not, but that she was grateful to be asked. What came out shocked them both.

"Alright then," she said. "One last dance."

"Yes? You mean you will? We can?" he stammered.

In reply, she stood up and held out her hand. He scrambled to his feet and took it in his, just holding it gently for a moment before coming around the chairs and pulling her towards him.

They began a lazy waltz around the room, smiling into each other's eyes. She looked down at her feet as they sped up a bit, causing him to chuckle.

"There's the top of your head again," he said in a low voice, near her ear.

She shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck and looked back up quickly.

"I don't hear any humming," she murmured.

He smiled, but didn't bother trying to provide any accompaniment. He wasn't even sure he could remember a single note while her eyes were as close to his as they were. While the dances they had shared earlier in the evening had been delightful and spirited, he'd underestimated how startlingly intimate it would be to dance with her alone in the Servant's Hall.

With no music. In their dressing gowns.

As they began to spin, his hand slid into the small of her back and he became immediately aware of how few layers of fabric there were between them. Was the little noise she made as they moved closer an indicator that she had come to the same realization?

Neither of them seemed to remember the rest of the steps. They simply continued to spin slowly, her hand caressing his shoulder, until they just stopped and were stood in the middle of the Servant's Hall, nearly embracing in their dressing gowns.

"Do you think we might meet down here again some time?" he asked just above a whisper as his eyes remained locked on hers. "For a dance or…."

"Or an illicit biscuit or two?" she added.

"As long as Mr. Barrow is getting blamed, why not?" he replied with a grin.

"On one condition, then."

"What's that?" he asked.

"As we've eaten forbidden biscuits and danced together in our dressing gowns, Joseph, do you think you might call me Phyllis…?" His whole faced beamed and she hastened to add with a warning eyebrow, "Only when we're alone, of course."

"Of course…Phyllis," he said, filling his chest with her name for the first time outside of a dream. Nothing had ever sounded better.

He pressed gently on her back and she moved her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck.

"One last dance, Phyllis?"

"One more, Joseph."

He pulled her even closer and they began to spin again to music only they could hear.

And Phyllis never looked at her feet even once.


End file.
